It was a beautiful spring afternoon. Two of Luke’s cousins, Don and Chris Reilly, and their wives, Helen and Marianne, were his and Nora’s guests for lunch. They had come to Regan and Jack’s wedding and stayed in New York for a few extra days to shop, take in a show, and just enjoy themselves. Tomorrow they were heading home. Don and Helen lived in Philadelphia, and Chris and Marianne had retired to Naples, Florida.
Relaxing on the leather banquette at a corner table, they were talking about all the Reilly relatives who had been at the wedding and joking about the week Regan had had before her big day, when her wedding dress had been stolen.
“She deserves a rest. Have you heard from her?” Helen asked.
“No news is good news!” Luke said, holding up his hand. “I know Nora would love to talk to Regan, but she’s in good hands with Jack.”
“He’s a doll,” Marianne said. “I have to find one like him for our Susan.”
“I thank God for him every night,” Nora said with a laugh as she reached into her purse for a tissue.
“You don’t have to get all choked up about it,” Luke commented.
“I’m not,” Nora said, rolling her eyes. Her purse open, she could hear her cell phone begin to ring. “Normally I wouldn’t answer my phone in a restaurant,” she said, “but I’ll just take a peek to see if it’s Regan.” She looked down. “The caller ID says it’s restricted. I’ll answer quickly, and if it’s not Regan, I’ll tell the person I’ll call back.” She grabbed the phone, turned her head toward the wall, and cupped her free ear with her hand. “Hello,” she said, trying to keep her voice down.
“Mom!”
“Regan! How are you?”
“I always knew the Irish were psychic,” Don said as he leaned back in his chair. “Regan must have known we were talking about her.”
“Maybe I’m the psychic one,” Helen whispered. “I just asked if she had called.
“We’re fine,” Regan told her mother. “I wanted to let you know what was going on in case you heard about what happened from somebody else.”
“Heard about what?” Nora asked quickly.
“First of all, there was a fire last night at Hennessy Castle—”
“Good Lord!”
Regan filled Nora in on what had happened since they arrived at the castle, but she didn’t mention her four-in-the-morning sighting. “We’re on our way to Galway now. We’ll be at Gerard’s house later this afternoon…. Mom, I’m losing reception. Don’t worry. I’ll talk to you soon. I wish I could say hi to Dad—” The connection was lost.
“Regan?” Nora said hopefully. But there was only silence at the other end. She closed her phone.
“Didn’t she want to say hello to dear old dad?” Luke asked. “My hand still hurts from writing out the check for that reception.”
The others laughed.
“After Maura got married, my hand had to be wrapped in ice,” Don said with a grimace as he flexed his fingers.
It’s hard to get a word in edgewise with this group, Nora thought fondly. “Regan did want to talk to you,” she told Luke. “Her phone lost reception.”
“They’re out in the middle of the country, aren’t they?” Marianne asked.
“Yes, and you won’t believe what’s already happened…” Nora began.
Jimmy Neary, who had known Regan since she was a child, approached the table. “So, Nora, that was Regan on the phone, was it? How’s your girl doing over in my homeland?” he asked, his tone amused, his brogue lilting. “She must be having a wonderful time.”
“Jimmy, if you want to hear this, you’d better have a seat.”
“What happened?” he asked excitedly, reaching for a chair from the next table without even turning his head.
Nora told the tale. “So it’s turned into a working honeymoon.”
“Oh my word,” Jimmy said, his face astonished. “How do you suppose those two thieves knew they were going to be there?”
Nora looked at the three Reilly men. “They have no idea, but cousin Gerard is going to help them in Galway.”
Don laughed. “If anyone knows Galway, Gerard does. Don’t you agree, Luke?”
“Naturally.”
“Gerard is a lovely guy,” Marianne said. “When we visited Ireland, he showed us all around. He knows everyone. It’s like he’s the mayor, and he does have the gift of gab.”
Luke’s face grew serious for a moment. “Regan sounds okay, doesn’t she?”
“Yes,” Nora quickly assured him. “Up until now this Jane and John Doe have been strictly jewel thieves. It seems they intended for the fire they set to be discovered before it got too bad. But instead of relaxing at the castle, Regan and Jack are on their way to Galway right now to see what they can find out.”
Luke felt a little relieved. But the expression on Nora’s face told him she was holding something back. “Nora, what else did Regan tell you?”
Nora raised her eyebrows. “The woman who made the tablecloth two hundred years ago is reputed to haunt Hennessy Castle.”
“Every castle needs a ghost!” Chris pronounced. “It adds to the mystique.”
Nora’s expression could have given Mona Lisa a run for her money. “The ghost’s family name is Reilly.”
For a brief moment the group was speechless.
A very brief moment.
Chris lifted his glass. “Which means she must be charming! Let’s toast to the ghost Reilly. What’s her first name?”
“May.”
“May May get her tablecloth back so she can rest in peace, and may Regan and Jack quickly return to enjoying their honeymoon as it should be enjoyed.”
Nora smiled as they clinked their nearly empty glasses, but she was uneasy. Who knew what Jane and John Doe might pull if they knew Jack was closing in on them? Why couldn’t Regan and Jack just honeymoon in peace?
Luke put his hand on Nora’s. “Don’t worry, Hon. Regan and Jack will be fine.”
“Thanks, Sweetie. I know they will.”
14
Regan flipped the phone closed. “Tune in tomorrow,” she muttered.
“Your mother sound all right?” Jack asked.
“I’m sure she’s not thrilled with what I just told her, but she’s used to these calls by now.”
Jack smiled. “She doesn’t worry as much as she once did now that you’re with me.”
It was no secret how much Nora loved Jack. “She’s created a monster,” Regan said with mock frustration.
Regan and Jack were in a small rental car, heading to Galway. Before leaving the castle they had spoken to Liam again to find out more information about the road race.
“There are loads of runners and several races every year in Galway,” Liam had said. “This one was a little different. It was more of what you would call a fun run. Not so serious. The guy who started it, Rory Donovan, owns a little gym called Get in Shape. His goal in life is to get people off their behinds. In Galway he’s known as the Coach. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind talking to you.”
Regan had immediately called the gym and left a message for Rory. She was assured by the girl who answered that he’d call back as soon as he finished a workout “with some old fella.”
The phone was still in Regan’s hand when it rang again. “What did we do before these were invented?” she asked as she opened the cell again and answered.
“Rory Donovan here, returning your call.”
“Thanks for calling back.” Regan explained the situation to him.
“So you think a couple of thieves ran in my race, do you?” Rory asked. His tone was friendly and inquisitive. “At least they’re into fitness. It’s very important.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” Regan replied, “but we prefer that they get their exercise in a prison yard.”
Rory laughed. “I’m sure you do. Some prisoners really get into shape when they’re in jail. They have the time, and exercise relieves their stress. My goal is to make people in the outside world get
in shape. I show them how, but they have to make the time!”
“You’re right,” Regan agreed, not quite believing that she was discussing the exercise habits of prisoners. “Mr. Donovan, if you don’t mind—”
“Rory. I’m not fancy. I’m not stuffy. I’m just Rory.”
“Okay, Rory. My husband and I want to look into the possibility that the couple we are looking for did in fact participate in that race. They might even be in Galway as we speak. We were wondering if we could meet with you for a few minutes and ask you some questions about the race.”
“Certainly. That race is my pride and joy! Last year was the first Fun Run we had. Made a few mistakes, but we’ll correct them this year. We didn’t have enough tea and sandwiches at the finish line.”
Regan felt herself nodding. “Uh-huh. So when would be a good time for us to meet with you?”
“Can you be here in about an hour?”
“Perfect,” Regan said quickly. “Thanks so much. What’s the address?” She grabbed a small notebook from her purse and wrote down the directions. “We’ll see you soon.” She hung up. “The Coach is really into fitness.”
Jack steered the car around a bend and quickly came to a stop. A farmer wearing knee-high rubber boots was herding several cows across the narrow road. His weathered face was a testimony to his years of working outdoors. He gave a slight wave but obviously didn’t feel the need to encourage his plodding bovines to pick up the pace.
“Don’t worry about it, pal,” Jack muttered under his breath as he waved back. “We’re in no hurry.”
“The cow crossing is the country’s version of a red light,” Regan noted with a grin.
“A long red light,” Jack said as one cow after another moseyed across the road.
Regan glanced over at a small cottage. The front door was just feet from the side of the road. Lace curtains framed the front window. Lace is so beautiful, Regan thought. It has certainly never gone out of style in Ireland. What was it about the pretty and delicate fabric that made it so timeless? she wondered. And how ironic that lacemaking became popular in Ireland as a way for women to make money during the blight of the potato famine. May Reilly made the Hennessy Castle tablecloth more than twenty years before that.
If only we had taken a minute yesterday to go up and look at May Reilly’s handiwork.
The final cow in the procession waddled in front of their car.
“Hallelujah,” Jack declared as he stepped on the gas.
It wasn’t raining, but the skies were gray and the cloud cover was low. They drove past endless fields of green. Stone cottages and farmhouses dotted the landscape. In the blink of an eye they passed through a tiny village where there were three people out on the street. A minute later they were once again in the middle of green fields.
Finally the road signs indicated that they were getting close to Galway, a medieval town that had recently undergone an unprecedented revival. Galway was now Ireland’s cultural capital. Students from the university added to the growing population, along with the young professionals who were attracted by the Irish theater, music, dance, sporting events, and wealth of pubs. Both laidback and bustling, it was said that when walking down the cobblestone streets of Galway, the noise one heard was a combination of talk and music.
Rory had told Regan that the gym was several blocks outside the center of Galway. Just after one o’clock, Regan and Jack spotted a small, nondescript gray building standing alone with a sign above the front door that read GET IN SHAPE. They pulled into the gravel parking lot.
“Let’s find out what Coach Rory has to tell us,” Jack said as he got out of the car.
A glass door opened onto a small reception area that could best be described as minimalist. A young girl with spiked pink hair, heavy black eyeliner, and numerous bracelets on each wrist greeted them from behind a desk. “Are you interested in a membership?” she asked, a nail file poised in her hand.
“No,” Jack answered. “We have an appointment with Rory Donovan.”
The receptionist didn’t seem the least bit disappointed that they weren’t potential members. “Go through the door there,” she pointed with her file. “He’s in the gym somewhere.”
“Thank you.”
The gym was small and earthy. It reminded Regan of those grungy gyms in boxing movies. According to Hollywood, you couldn’t train to be a champ in a well-lit, pastel-colored, carpeted health club. The gray walls and old wooden floor made Regan think of the gym in her elementary school. The equipment was basic; cardio machines lined one end of the room, and weight machines were located at the other. A full-length mirror covered one wall. There were a dozen people working out, none of them hard-bodied or attired in flashy workout clothes.
Regan liked it. Something about the place felt real. And the room had an energizing smell.
A tall man in shorts and a T-shirt was adjusting the weight on a machine for a guy who looked clueless. “Do a set of eight, rest, and then do it again,” he advised.
“Thanks, Coach.”
“That’s our guy,” Jack said to Regan in a low voice.
Spotting Regan and Jack, he hurried over and extended his hand. He was in his mid-forties and had shoulder-length wavy brown hair and intense green eyes. He was wiry, but the muscles in his arms and legs were highly developed like Popeye’s. “I’m Rory Donovan. We can talk in my office.”
Regan and Jack followed him through a door into a tiny windowless room with a metal desk. Papers were strewn everywhere, as were framed pictures of runners competing in what was obviously the Fun Run. A large framed cartoon of exhausted runners piling on top of one another at the finish line of a race hung behind the desk. A zaftig red-headed old lady in the crowd of spectators was leaning over, daintily dabbing one of their foreheads with her lace handkerchief.
“Is that the decal?” Regan asked as Rory unfolded a couple of chairs for them to sit on.
“Yes. Isn’t that too funny?” he asked as he paused, leaned his body to one side, and raised an eyebrow.
“It’s very clever,” Regan agreed.
“Too funny,” he repeated as he finished unfolding the chairs. “I advertised a contest in the newspaper. Said I’d pay two hundred euros for the best logo for the race. A woman sent that in. I never met her.” He pointed to an oil painting on the back wall. “She sent me that as a gift after I sent her the check. She was so happy to have won the contest, but she didn’t want any publicity at all. I honored her wishes.”
Regan and Jack turned and were struck by an unusual, eye-catching painting that portrayed a misty Irish landscape of rolling hills, a thatched-roof cottage off in the distance, and three cows in the field gathered under a lace umbrella.
“She’s good,” Regan said. “The landscape is gorgeous and ethereal almost, but the painting is so whimsical.”
“I told her that lace umbrella was too funny. I had to laugh, just had to. I wanted to have a show of her paintings here at the gym, but she said no way.” He sat at his desk. “Sit down, please.”
“Thank you,” Regan said as she and Jack took their seats. “This gym is yours?” she asked.
Rory nodded. “I was in the business world in Dublin until I had a heart attack three years ago, age forty-two. I weighed sixty pounds more than I do now. Sixty. That was some wake-up call. I quit my job, moved to Galway, started working out and running, and decided I should help other people get in shape. I know what it’s like to almost drop dead.”
“That is a wakeup call,” Regan agreed.
“We both work out at least three times a week,” Jack said dutifully.
“I can tell,” Rory commented.
Another detective in the room, Regan thought.
“People are afraid to get started, or they don’t feel the motivation until something happens as it did to me. I want to make it easy for people to start exercising. I didn’t want a gym that would be intimidating. You know the kind—where you walk in and everyone looks as if they grew up
on Muscle Beach. Most out-of-shape people turn around and head for the pub. I purposely made this gym look the way it does. Kind of like where Rocky worked out before his first big match.”
Bingo, Regan thought. “Tell us about the Fun Run,” she coaxed.
Rory’s smile was crooked. He nodded with pleasure. “I can’t believe we pulled it off. There are a lot of road races around here now. A lot of serious runners. I wanted a race that would be like this gym—relaxed. I scheduled it for the weekend of the New York Marathon. The hard-core runners would be in New York. I told people who had never been in a race that ours was the first step on the way to running in the marathon. That’s why I came up with the idea of having a light-hearted logo. The problem is I can’t draw. Hence the contest.”
Jack leaned forward. “How many people were in your race?”
“Four hundred and forty-seven, give or take a few.”
“Were they all registered?”
“The vast majority were. Some even signed up that morning just before the race. But then others joined the race as it was in progress. We didn’t want to be too strict with them because the idea was to encourage people to get out and run. But one thing is for sure. We gave decals only to people who were wearing a number and were registered. We barely had enough. I should have ordered more!”
Regan’s pulse quickened. “That’s great news,” she said.
“Can we get a list of the people who were in the race?” Jack asked.
“I don’t see why not.” He looked at Jack. “This couple holds a grudge against you, huh?’
Jack gestured with his right hand. “Yes, I suppose they do.”
“They must be Irish,” Rory laughed. “Let me print out that list.” He logged onto his computer, found the file, and printed out three copies. He handed one each to Regan and Jack.
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